While most of the merry band was in the prisoner's cell interrogating their prize, Parry had excused himself back to his own room citing a need for "air" in an underground, self contained bunker built to survive a thermonuclear exchange. 

So "air" was a flimsy stand in for "I'm not feeling wanted right now, so I'm going to go pout."

It wasn't until he got halfway down the hall that the scratching, gnawing feeling in his gut went away. When Parry took a second to breathe in a sigh of relief, he got hit with a sledgehammer of memories.

[i]An old hag. Mid-60s. Standing over a summoning circle. Call forth a lesser Daemon. She knows how to control it. Doesn't let it trick her or tempt her. 

Doesn't overreach to summon a Greater Daemon either, letting greed destroy her. 

Casually, she traps its power, its essence, and destroys its form. 

Distills its essence down to a potion.

Sells it. Makes a tidy profit. Keeps some for herself though.

Later, much later, a bound victim in a circle of candles. Humanoid. But human? Fairy? Shifter? Cannot tell. 

An assistant carries a knife- a scalpel. Hovers over the victim's chest. Casually carves a runic charm into the captive's stomach- superficial wounds, but bloody. Messy. Painful. 

Blood drips down the victim's ribs and hips. Is collected into a bowl until there is almost a full cup of it.

Later. The blood is distilled. Mixed with the lesser daemon's essence. 

Consumed.

And she is now in her 30s. Young, beautiful, and wise.[/i]

It continued in the back of Parry's skull on infinite loop, whether he was seeing the same rituals or repeated ones. The vision wasn't going anywhere and the feelings it stirred up in him went beyond revulsion. Something deep inside of him felt distorted, twisted, corrupted. That he was powerless to stop the visions meant he was only feeling all the more helpless.

He skipped going to his own bedroom and ran right for the showers, losing his shirt in the hallway, shucking his pants on the sink. He turned on the water full blast on hot while searching through his bag for his travel kit. Some Lush soap was the best Parry could find but he wanted bleach. 

Twelve minutes under the shower and he'd scrubbed himself raw. The soap had left every inch of him smelling like Cool Melon and yet Parry still couldn't get the stain off of him. 

Every second that passed it clawed at him deeper, digging into his essence. Something had him, was using him, studying him like a predator- of the animal or human variety.

Through choked sobs, Parry shouted at the ceiling, the showerhead, the steam cloud "What do you want? Tell me what you want! Just let go of me! Don't touch me!"

Finally, he couldn't take the scrutiny and the blemishing of his soul any longer. Parry left the shower stall and stumbled over to the mirror by the sink. With one forefinger in hand he started tracing his own runic marks into the steam clouded surface, then slammed his palm into the center of the glass.

[i]A city in the East. Wind-swept and walled in, built upon an ancient flood plain. A pall of smoke hangs over the rooftops, from the slums to the palace, the market to the garrison. 

There is wailing, keening cry that doesn't stop, and as the wind shifts the smoke blows back.

A corpse left to decay smells horrid. Ten thousand corpses burned in the streets- there are no words. If he required food to survive, there would be none left inside of him.

They hover over the west road out of the city. That way lies Rome. To the East is Parthia.

'It is done,' Cymriel Augustus murmurs.

'Firestorm would have been more merciful to them.'

Cymriel shrugs. 'An Arachnus Daemon loose within the city gets in every nook and cranny. A Firestorm would kill the humans quickly but an Arachnus would survive and thrive. Nothing cleans out the creatures like plague.'

Parry winces. 'And the children? What of them.'

That is his imperative. His existence. Before he was formed, as he was formed, until the day his form vanished it would be his reason for being.

Cymriel shakes its head. 'They will return to the Source of All. From there, who knows? It is not ours to question. It is ours to do. But take heart. There will be survivors. Orphans.'

There is no comfort to be had there. This is a hard place. A desolate place. Orphans will not live for long and he knows it. 

Cymriel leaves, returning to The Shore. Parael stays and sees the fruits of their labors.

Within days the first trade caravan comes. The orphans Cymriel spoke of soon find one of two fates awaiting them. Death- by exposure, by hunger, by thirst, by smoke, by disease. Or slavery at the hands of the trade caravan. 

The protection he can offer is minimal, bound by Eternal Law. As hundreds are carted off to be abused, used, and disposed of like chattel, he watches. A caravan of the hopeful, so many piglets being promised safety, wide-eyed, knowing nothing of how they will be used up by cities and empires that will note their passing with little more than a hole in the ground for their bones.

And as he watches that first caravan leave, that train of doomed hope, he does his duty and watches over them as best he can.[/i]

"See how you fucking like it, huh? Let go of me! Let go of me!"